


A Silent Princess Thrives in the Wild

by jujulica



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: AU, Roleswap, Zelda is the PC AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 00:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15473718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujulica/pseuds/jujulica
Summary: A girl awakes in the resurrection chamber with no memory of what happened 100 years ago. An old man asks her to go fishing for him.





	A Silent Princess Thrives in the Wild

**Author's Note:**

> Had this half-written for a year, finally decided to finish it and publish. Based off some tumblr threads and those mods that replace Link with Zelda as the PC.

When she awakens, it isn’t with a jolt, heart racing from a nightmare (this is something she has intimately felt before, she know the feeling well). Nor is it a blissful awakening after a long night of rest, to the sound of songbirds. Rather, her awakening isn’t much of anything. One minute she is asleep, the next, she is awake, as if someone has gently roused her from sleep, a warm hand lightly squeezing her shoulder. 

But there is no one here with her. She is alone. 

Presently, the blue light she finds herself lying in begins to fade and the warmth that had enveloped her drains away. She sits up. There are tears welling in her eyes but she can’t fathom why she feels the sorrow she does. She angrily wipes them away. 

The cave is cold. 

She finds her feet are bare and she is only clothed in her undergarments. The chamber she finds herself in is illuminated by soft blue and orange lights, and the entrance is sealed by what she knows is the Sheikah Slate resting atop a pedestal. It’s activation would unseal the door. 

There are old clothes folded in chests in the next chamber. Ancient things, though surprisingly well preserved. They smell musty. A light cotton shirt, a bit too short for her torso, a soft brown color (perhaps it used to be white, but time has ravaged all things). A short pair of trousers ending at her calves. Soft old boots that fit her feet well. The clothing feels unfamiliar, not like anything she’s worn before (she thinks of silks and fine linens, tightly cinched at her waist, then wonders where these thoughts come from). 

She spends what feels like hours sitting in that dimly lit cavern, engrossed in the glowing images from the slate. She cannot say why, but this feels familiar. Her fingers automatically ghost over the surface of the screen, tapping at symbols and icons she can’t quite understand yet, feeling disappointed when they do not react the way she expects. 

“The data has corrupted,” she murmurs to herself (how much time has passed?). She catches herself wondering how she knows that. Many of the images on the slate are blurred out, areas obscured. She finds something she believes is a heavily obscured map, but it does not reveal much (data corruption: high). Someone has placed markers on the map and she traces her hand over a light blue one she thinks shows her location. An orange marker rests nearby. 

When she can no longer puzzle herself over the images on the Sheikah Slate, she rises from the floor of the cavern and makes her way to the brightly lit entrance. She can hear the rustling of grass in the wind, an occasional bird chirp. Warm, fresh air blows in through the entrance and she emerges into the sunlight.

\---

She makes her way towards a fire, towards an old man sitting beneath a cliff, the Sheikah Slate strapped to her hip, bumping lightly against her side with each step (the blues and oranges of the slate clash horribly with her subdued, earth-toned clothes). 

She worries at first (and she wonders why) if she should not approach this man. Is it customary for people to greet each other in the wilderness? Should she be worried for her safety--supposing he is a lunatic old man living in the wilds? She hopes surely not. Would it be rude if she silently passed him without greeting? (It is too late now for her to go in any other direction, for he has already seen her approach and seems to be expecting her). But her curiosity overcomes her multiple anxieties and she stops a few feet from the fire. She raises her hand in greeting. 

“Feel free to sit and help yourself to a roasted apple,” the old man says before the girl can open her mouth. He gestures to the edge of the fire, where a few apples roast near the heat. She contemplates for a moment whether roasted apple would burn her fingers, then realizes her stomach is empty and she is famished. She wonders when she last ate (it must have been so long ago), sits next to the fire, and reaches for an apple. It is warm, but not hot, to her touch; the skin is smooth and tight. 

“Thank you,” the girl says, sniffing the apple. It’s sweet aroma fills her nostrils. “Oh, it smells quite lovely!” 

The old man smiles beneath his hood. “An apple, an open flame, and companionship in the wilderness makes for a treat.” 

The girl wipes a bit of ash from the apple with her shirt and bites into it. The heat has softened and sweetened the apple’s flesh and it melts in her mouth. 

“It is a bit strange to see another soul in these parts,” the man considers her closely, his eyes searching her face. 

The girl swallows her bite. “I-is it?” She asks, feeling sweat forming at her scalp, “Well, you’re certainly the only other person I’ve ever seen here, though I suppose I haven’t seen much of these parts yet, I’ve only just... arrived.” She stops, realizing her tongue has gone on faster than her brain. “Um, who are you?” (she cannot tell him who she is, she does not know. Where did she arrive from anyways? That ancient cavern? No, that doesn’t seem right). The apple cools slowly in her hand. 

“Me?” The old man’s voice cracks. He pauses, not expecting the question. His eyes slide away from her face and into the crackling fire as if searching for something. The girl feels a sense of dread. Does she know this old man? Has she offended him? Her heart clenches but she cannot remember. 

He sighs. “I’ll spare you my... life story,” he answers to the fire, then looks at her eyes again. She finds her heart is pounding. “I’m just an old fool who has lived here alone for quite some time.” His eyes are blue beneath his hood, the girl sees, and it makes her quite sad, though she cannot say why. 

“Ah,” the girl rubs smooth circles with her thumbs into her apple. “I-I see. Where... where is ‘here’ exactly? I think I’m lost. I can't seem to remember how I’ve gotten here.” She stops, wondering once again if she’s said too much. How common is it for people to forget where they are? She thinks perhaps it is common of older folks, then catches her rude train of thought before she can apply it to this old man. 

“This is the Great Plateau, the birthplace of the kingdom of Hyrule.” 

“Oh.” 

The old man looks at her as if expecting a different response. The girl does not know what to say. Her heart pounds faster and faster because she does not know anything about a kingdom of Hyrule and she wonders if these simple geographic trivia are common knowledge. 

Instead, she asks, “if this is the birthplace of a kingdom, why are we the only ones here? Where is everyone else?” 

“The kingdom has declined,” the old man says, “one hundred years ago, this region was prosperous, and that temple over there, the site of sacred rites.” He gestures towards a large, ruinous structure in the valley. “But that is forgotten now, another ghost of the past. The war has taken much from us.” 

The girl contemplates his words and takes another bite of her apple. It has cooled much more now, and its flesh feels sickly sweet against her tongue. She chews and swallows, takes another bite. They sit in silence as she eats her apple, and when she reaches the core, she throws it into the fire to burn. 

“Thank you, sir, for the apple and your company,” she says, wiping her hands on her shirt (she nearly scolds herself for doing so, then remembers her shirt is but old cotton, not fine blue silk). “But I think I must be going now. I have business to... attend to.” She does not yet know what business exactly she has to do, but she finds herself eager to examine the large ruinous temple in the valley. She thinks it sits on the marked location on her Sheikah Slate. 

She begins to rise from her seated position, but the old man says, “wait! It’s dangerous to go alone in these parts,” he explains, “since the decline, the Plateau has turned wild. Monsters roam through the ruins. It would be dangerous to go alone.” 

Her gut clenches in fear but she pushes that feeling away. “Thank you for your concern, sir,” she says, “But I can manage myself.” She has no idea where this statement comes from, but she believes it to be true. “Thank you again, and for the warning as well.” She fully rises and dusts herself off. 

“Very well,” the old man says. He pulls a short bow and small quiver from beneath his cloak, regards this equipment momentarily, then offers it to the girl. “Take these. Perhaps you will find these useful.” 

The girl pauses, thinking of refusing. But if these parts are truly dangerous, then perhaps a weapon of sorts would help. 

“Th-thank you.” 

She accepts the gift, fingers closing over the warm wood of the bow. She hopes she knows how to use it. Her fingers seem to know how to tie the quiver to her hip, and she thinks perhaps this is a sign she will know how to use the bow as well; her muscle memory seems to remember who she is, even if she does not. 

“In the valley on the other side of the temple,” the old man points, “I have a cabin in those woods.” He hesitates. “If you find yourself needing anything, my doors are welcome to you. And I--” He trails off, words unsaid. 

She waits a moment, to see if he has more to say. She says goodbye, then turns her heel to the old man. She picks her way into the valley and doesn’t look back, but she can feel his blue gaze on her as she descends. 

The sun is low and golden in the sky as the girl ascends the steps to the ruined temple. The steps have crumbled in many places, wild grasses and flowers bloom across her path. She thinks these beautiful, the state of decay brings her peace. 

A giant, hulking shell of a machine rests beside the path to the temple. The girl traces her fingers over the intricate swirls and patterns on its hull. Time has taken its toll on the machine (this ancient machine, she knows), moss covers its its surface in patches, yet it is strangely rust-less. The machine is not an iron one and she fights the urge to pry open the hull and examine the delicate machinery inside. There is not enough light in the sky for such a venture. 

She continues up the path, among the broken steps. The path leading up to the temple is surrounded by crumbling buildings, roofs long caved in, meager walls barely standing. The girl sees no bodies and breathes in relief. 

Within the temple, the golden light seems softer, greener, filtered by plant life growing over parts of the large gaps in the ceiling. Vines have crawled across the walls, pulling down the structure of the temple. In perhaps a hundred more years, only a few boulders will remain. A few boulders and--

At the end of the temple, the girl can see a large statue. The light from the ceiling falls just so, to illuminate its round, smiling features. A statue of the smiling goddess, illuminated by the setting sun, but the girl knows that no matter the position of the sun in the sky, this statue will always be illuminated (in this holy place). She had only entered a few paces into the temple, but seeing the statue, she wishes to go no further.

(she must burn wheat and incense at the altar, bring offerings of fruit and flowers, pray to the goddess for her blessing, but it is all for nothing—but she cannot remember why) 

The nameless girl does not face the goddess statue. She feels an angry power building inside her, her heart clenches with anger. Instead, she leaves the temple, climbing over a crumbling wall as the sun bathes her in golden light. When she looks across the valley, she can see smoke rising from the chimney of a distant cabin. She will not make make it there before the moon rises. 

As sunset turns to twilight and the evening air pulls in, the girl builds a small fire and huddles against the wall of a crumbling ruin. 

That night, she sleeps and dreams of nothing she can remember. 

In the brief moment between waking and opening her eyes, the girl wonders irritably which of her traveling companions is making that horrible snuffling sound. When she does open her eyes, the vestiges of her half-formed memory fade away to a rude shock. 

A strange creature seems to be poking through the remnants of her ashy fire, grunting at itself as it sniffs a half-charred apple the girl forgot by the fire last night. It makes a face and tosses the apple behind its shoulder. In the pale morning light, the creature’s ruddy red skin seems almost purple. Large fangs poke out from between its lips. It wears a crude loin cloth and holds a large wooden club on one hand. 

The girl watches the creature, unsure of her course of action, wondering if the creature is one of the monsters the old man warned her about. The bow and quiver the old man gifted her lay unused against the wall beside her and her fingers twitch towards them. 

But she also wouldn’t want to be rude if the creature is not a monster.

“Hello,” the girl ventures to the creature. 

The creature jumps, finally noticing the awakened girl. It cocks its head to the side, watching her as she watches it. For a few breaths, nothing seems to happen. 

Then the creature growls and raises its club. 

The girl yelps and ducks to the side, barely dodging the heavy wooden club as it smashes into the wall beside her. The creature grunts in surprise seeing the girl’s head has not smashed against its club. 

The girl scrambles away from the creature, cursing silently at herself because the creature’s club is between her and the bow. Her fingers close around a loose rock on the ground, crumbled from the building. 

The creature turns its head to look at her again and raises its club. It takes one step towards her before she throws the rock at its head with all her might. The creature stumbles back and drops its club, dazed. The girl rises to her feet and dances around the creature, to dive for her bow and quiver. As her fingers close around her weapon, she twists to face the creature. Before she can notch an arrow into the bow, the creature snarls kicks at her, catching her in the ribs and throwing her against the crumbling wall. She cries out in pain, fingers slipping from the the drawstring. The bow and arrow fall to the ground. 

The creature snatches its club once more and raises it to deal a final blow. 

In the moment before its club connects with her skin, the girl feels a strange golden power building in her chest. Time slows and she gathers this golden light in her fingers and raises her hands to grab the falling club. It connects with her palms and everything explodes. 

The creature flies back with a yelp and burns from the inside out, its club thrown far away. The girl watches the creature die, her palms tingling, gut clenching in fear. The golden light fades from her hands and she lays in the grass, dazed. 

The sun burns away the early morning fog before the girl rises from the grass, wincing at the bruise that has formed on her abdomen. She collects her unused bow and quiver, picking falling arrows from the ground, then peeks out around the ruined wall to look at the ruined temple. 

It looks abandoned as ever. 

Swallowing thickly through her dry tongue, the girl begins her trek to the woods she thinks the old man’s cabin was in. 

\---

The girl finds the old man crouched behind a bush, bow and arrow in hand. He has not noticed her, so she watches him silently. He draws his bow and lets an arrow fly into the brush ten feet away. The girl hears the sick sound of the arrow embedding in soft flesh, and the boar the old man has hit squeals in pain as it bolts from the brush, trailing blood. 

The old man grunts in annoyance and fits another arrow into his bow. 

Before he can let his arrow fly, the boar falls to the ground, dead, a second arrow piercing its side. 

The girl finds with satisfaction that she does indeed know how to shoot a bow. 

The old man lowers his bow and turns to look at her, unperturbed to see her standing behind him. “Good shot.” 

She feels a blush rise to her cheeks and feels a swell of pride at the compliment. This feeling, she finds, is not familiar. 

“Come,” says the old man, rising from his crouch, “I shall make us soup.” 

The girl follows the old man to his cabin. The cabin is a barely-stitched together structure—old logs covered in thick moss, one wall is part stone, the side of a giant boulder. The girl thinks the cabin would not hold together without some form of magic.

He enters his cabin, leaving the dead boar outside, and returns with a fishing rod, which he hands to her. He motions to a nearby pond.

While the old man skins the boar, the girl tries to fish. 

After a few failed attempts with the fishing rod (the girl has seen someone fish before, but has no memory of doing so herself), she pulls out her bow once more. She peels off her soft worn boots, rolls up the legs of her pants, and wades into the shallow pond. 

With two arrows, she skewers two fish. 

She returns to the old man’s cabin, where she finds him tending to a cooking pot atop a roaring fire. The girl hands him the two fish, still skewered on her arrows. The old man raises his eyebrows, but says nothing as he accepts the fish. 

The old man cooks as the sun sets and the girl watches. 

“Thank you for your hospitality,” the girl tells the old man after he has given her a bowl of spicy fish and boar soup. 

The old man smiles and prods the fire with a long stick but remains silent. 

He has given her a bedroll and a thick overcoat, slightly too large for her to keep the night chill at bay. This, more comfortable than her night in the temple ruins. 

They sit across the burning fire outside the old man’s cabin. The girl takes a few sips of the old man’s soup. It is warm and spicy, salted to perfection. 

She had not realized how hungry she had become. One roasted apple had not nearly been enough to sustain her. 

“I will leave in the morning,” the girl says, “perhaps you could give me directions? I have a map on this Sheikah Slate, but the data is corrupted and it isn’t of much use. I feel I need to go to a place called Kakariko, but I don’t know how to get there.” 

The old man breaks his silence. 

“Kakariko Village is a hard day’s ride east on horseback from here. On foot it may take you longer.”

“How much longer?” 

“I have not been there in... many years,” he answers. “I do not know how the roads have been kept since the decline of Hyrule. I do not even know if the village still stands.” 

“Oh.” The girl had not considered that her map had been outdated. Merely corrupted (but that can be fixed, the Sheikah know how, she finds herself knowing). She drinks deeply from her bowl of soup, leaving dregs of fish and meat, a few sliced peppers, at the bottom. 

“In the morning, I can show you a path down from the plateau, hidden from most. For now, you should eat and rest.” The old man has not touched his soup and it sits, cooling in the night.

When the girl awakens for the third time, she finds herself alone. Warm golden light and birdsong filter through the cracks in the old man’s cabin. On a table near the bed, the girl finds a bowl of apples next to a roughly scrawled note on top of what looks like a journal. Resisting the urge to read the old man’s journal, the girl turns her attention to the note instead. 

In a rough scrawl, the note reads, ‘take what you need from the cabin. Meet me at the temple ruins and I shall show you the way down the plateau.’ 

‘Storm clouds are rolling in.’

He leaves no signature and the girl wonders what his name could be. She also wonders why he simply couldn’t have waited for her to wake up, instead of forcing her to trudge all the way back to the temple. 

She eats an apple from the bowl, then two. Next to her pile of meager possessions (the bow and arrow, her Sheikah Slate, the too-large overcoat) she finds a small hooded cloak carefully folded. She gathers her few possessions, pulls the hood over her head, and leaves the old man’s cabin. 

More familiar with the terrain now, the girl makes good time to the ruined temple. She finds no more strange monsters, but large, dark storm clouds roll in from the distance. She makes it to the temple just as a light sprinkle of rain begins, ducking under some still-intact roof in the ruined temple. 

The girl glances around the temple, water leaking from the roof. It is empty, save for the still illuminated smiling goddess statue. The girl frowns in annoyance, wondering where the old man may be. Unwilling to check for the old man outside the temple with the rain, the girl makes her way to the smiling goddess. 

As she climbs the steps towards the statue, the goddess’ features seem to become more and more illuminated, as if by sunlight (on this cloudy day). Water drains from the roof above, leaking into the temple and producing streams of water that cascade down the steps like a waterfall. 

Holy magic. 

The girl stands in front of the smiling goddess statue but she does not pray (the goddess does not need to answer). The girl can feel the holy magic running through her veins; that is answer enough. Her palms itch and sweat as she can almost remember how she came to have this power. If she thinks deep enough, she can almost remember who the old man is. 

A voice breaks her reverie. 

“Here I am, get up here quickly,” the old man’s voice calls from above her, “there is a ladder outside.” The girl looks up to the old man’s face peeking from a gap in the roof above her. The rainfall does not bother him.

“It’s raining,” the girl calls out, but the old man dips from view again. 

The girl takes an irritated breath, pulls her her hood over her air, and steps into the rain. 

\---

“I’m sorry,” the old man says, leaving other words unspoken. 

The girl bites her tongue, leaving other words unspoken. Excuses, unnecessary platitudes, vague feelings and memories she cannot quite grasp. Anger. 

She says, “you died.” Then, “I couldn’t save you.” And finally, “am I the only one left?” 

There are things she does not remember and she thinks it will be too painful if she tries to. These words, however, seem right. There were others, and now there’s only her. She failed. The red light of Calamity Ganon glows from the distance, where Hyrule castle once stood, now in ruins. 

“There are things I wish I had told you, long ago, words that might have made a difference. But I’m afraid I’m too late, given that your memory is... still fragile,” the old man says, his voice soft, afraid, her name drifting from his tongue. 

The girl stares at the old man, hard, her gaze cold and angry, pained, half forgotten feelings resurfacing. His eyes flicker away from her stare, to look past her, towards the stormy horizon behind her, towards the ruins of Hyrule Castle. 

She says, “it is too late. I’m afraid I’m the only one left, aren’t I? I failed.” Tears sting in the corners of her eyes, hot. This old man, the remnants of her father’s spirit, drifts away from her, towards the edge of the temple’s roof. Her heart races, a headache building behind her eyes. “How is that enough?” She demands, “they’re all dead! You’re dead! What do I have left?” 

He does not look at her as he speaks. “You, my daughter, are still alive. That is enough.” The girl does not respond. He points to the distant horizon, towards the ruins of Hyrule castle. 

“Ganon will freely regenerate himself and nothing will stop him from consuming our land,” he says, “please, my daughter, I am powerless here. Save what is left of Hyrule.” 

The girl takes a shuddering breath and whispers, hoarse, “how?” 

Hot tears prickle near the edges of her vision, threatening to spill as the old man’s eyes finally meet her own. “I am sorry, Zelda. I should not have pushed you as I did.” 

Now the tears do spill from her eyes, as the old man, her dead father, gently places his spectral hand on her shoulder, a gesture devoid of the weight of a living person, but one that grounds her.

“How?” She asks again. 

“Reawaken the divine beasts,” Her father says, “research your relics. Perhaps they may lead you to answers I can’t provide.” 

Her shoulder shake. He says, “This, I should have said to you while I was still alive. I am sorry, Zelda.” 

To remember her name brings her little comfort. She brings her hand up to place upon her father’s hand. It passes through his ghostly form and she feels the fabric of her shirt beneath her hand. 

“I can’t forgive you now,” she half whispers, “when I can’t remember why.” 

Her father withdraws his shaking hand. “I understand.” He breaks his gaze from her then points to the east. “Take the road to Kakariko village, past the Dueling Peaks.” His arm drops again and he turns to face her for the last time. 

Zelda wipes the tears from her face as her father fades from the world, and leaves her alone atop an ancient, crumbling ruin. 

\---

The burden of her name falls heavy on her shoulders. She whispers it into the wind and wonders what it sounds like on another’s tongue. The queen of this ruined kingdom picks her way down the great plateau into the valley beyond.


End file.
